


wonderwall

by ymorton



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: White House era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 06:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11731512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: tommy/guitar/insomnia/anxiety ot4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i asked for fic ideas and thebadlucktux responded with "I've been thinking a lot about tommy and his guitar during the wh years. Like did it sit in a corner gathering dust and guilty glances? Or was it one of the only things that could help calm a racing mind at night? And how unfair did Lovett find the sight of him with that guitar in his boxers?"
> 
> so uhhhh. anyway, here's wonderwall

She giggles, leaning closer, and Jon looks back down and stabs his frozen dinner with the fork again, viciously. 

“Do you know Wonderwall?” he hears her ask, and Tommy murmurs something affirmative back that Jon doesn’t quite catch. Not that he’s listening or anything. It’s Tommy’s fourth date in two weeks, with four different girls, which is _fine_ , because Jon is also not counting. He’s not listening, or counting, or giving a shit.

Tommy starts playing again and Jon rolls his eyes and shoves his dinner into the microwave. He’s always hated acoustic guitar, ever since he went to Jewish camp in sixth grade and they had to sing Hebrew songs by the fire and Josh Levin vomited a stomachful of undercooked chicken onto Jon’s only pair of sneakers while Jon was in the middle of his solo in Lecha Dodi. Acoustic guitar brings back painful memories.

He pops open a can of Diet Coke and looks up as Tommy ducks into the kitchen. His hair’s mussed like someone’s been running their hands through it and he grins at Jon, cheeks flushed.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey,” Jon says, gulping his Diet Coke. He watches Tommy open the fridge and pull out another bottle of white wine. “Date going well?”

Tommy grabs the bottle opener. “Yeah, she’s cool.”

“Should I, um, leave? I could eat dinner at Favs’, it’s fine. Don’t let me cockblock you.”

God, he’s getting good at talking to straight people. _Cockblock_. He sounds like a frat bro.

“Nah, it’s cool. Vanessa has to leave for a thing in like a half hour. I don’t wanna kick you out.” Tommy ruffles his hair and grabs the sweating wine bottle. “No worries.”

Jon watches him settle back down on the couch, giving the girl- Vanessa- one of his crinkle-eyed smiles as he pours her another glass of wine.

The microwave beeps and he looks away. 

\---

He works in his room until midnight and then ventures out for a Diet Coke refill and a piss break. The apartment’s quiet but Tommy’s on the couch in front of the muted TV, blanket around his bare shoulders, guitar in his lap. He’s playing quietly, idly almost.

“Hey," Jon says, and Tommy startles hard, grabs the neck of his guitar.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You scared me.”

“Sorry. I live here too.” Jon sinks onto the couch next to him.

Tommy looks over at him, face pale and wan in the silvery light of the television. He looks exhausted. “How’s it going?”

“Almost started writing it. Getting really close.”

Tommy laughs, head ducking. “Your work ethic inspires me, Lovett.”

“As it should, Tommy. As it should. You could learn a thing or two.” He takes a sip of soda, pulls a pillow onto his lap. “You’re not sleeping. Again.”

Tommy shrugs, not looking up from the guitar. He plucks out a chord. “Not tired.”

“When’s the last time you slept a full night?”

He sounds like his _mom_. How embarrassing.

Tommy looks up at him. His eyes are hollow and he laughs, humorless.

“October?”

It’s March. Jon doesn’t know what to say to that.

Tommy looks back down after a second, starts plucking again. He strums a chord and hums to himself.

“You should take something,” Jon says, chewing his lip. This is the most Tommy's talked about it. “Ambien or something.”

“Makes my head foggy,” Tommy says. “I tried Xanax, Lunesta, Unisom, Klonopin-“

“Seriously?”

Tommy shrugs, not looking at him. “I brought some of my mom’s pills back with me last time I went home.”

Jon huffs a nervous laugh. “Nice.”

“Welcome to my family,” Tommy says, softly. He picks out another chord. “The Vietors know how to self-medicate.”

“Does it help to get laid?” Jon asks, and immediately regrets it. That’s one of those questions gay guys can’t ask straight guys without sounding like the start of a bad porno. 

Tommy snorts. “Is that a come-on, Lovett?”

“No,” Jon says quickly, flushing. “Fuck you. No. Sorry for being a concerned roommate. Sorry for _giving_ a shit about your _mental health_ -”

“Alright, relax.” Tommy strums the guitar a few times. “Kinda helps, I guess. But not enough to justify actually making someone deal with my shit. Everything with- you know.”

Katie. His dad. He lets it hang in the air but Jon knows what he means.

Jon shifts uncomfortably. “You’re gonna burn out if you keep going like this. Like, you have to sleep.”

Tommy laughs, choked in his throat. “We’re all burned out, Lovett. That’s par for the course. That’s like a job requirement.”

“I’m not.”

Tommy gives him a sharp glance. “You’re moving to fucking LA cuz you're so burned out. You’re such a liar.”

Jon looks away. He hasn’t told anyone else that yet, and he didn’t even mean to tell Tommy. He was just drunk and rambling and it came out.

“Sorry,” Tommy says, immediately contrite. 

“Whatever,” Jon mutters.

Tommy shrugs the blanket off his shoulders. He’s bare-chested, naked except boxers. Jon has to fight not to look at his thighs. “You tell Favs yet?”

Jon shakes his head, miserably.

“He’s gonna miss you,” Tommy says.

Jon can’t meet his steady gaze. “Sure.”

“He will.” Tommy plucks a string on the guitar, drops his eyes. “I will too.”

It’s silent for a second. Tommy coughs, picks out another note. 

“You’re gonna fall apart without me,” Jon says, making it dry. “My dirty dishes are your life purpose.”

Tommy laughs, shoulders hitching. He smiles down at his guitar. “The only thing that keeps me going.”

Jon shoves a pillow under his head, stretches his legs out on the couch til his toes are just brushing Tommy's warm solid thigh. That feels safe enough. Tommy doesn't move away. 

"Play something," he says, feeling a weird ache in his chest. It's just- strange to ask that. Feels like a different life entirely, like Jon's one of the girls Tommy's had over in the past two weeks, leaning in to flirt with him on the couch. "Play me a lullaby, Vietor." 

Tommy snorts. "Like what?" 

"I don't care," Jon says. "Something good." 

"Something good," Tommy murmurs. The song he starts playing isn't familiar but Jon hums and shuts his eyes. 

When he wakes up the sun's rising and Tommy's asleep next to him on the couch, neck at a weird angle, mouth open. His guitar's on the ottoman. Jon watches him for a minute- his soft mouth, the dark circles under his eyes. He has to pee and he can see his Blackberry blinking on the table but he stays very still. He lets Tommy sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for another fic meme fill, things you said when you were drunk

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?” Tommy asks, tugging at the hole in the hem of Jon’s t-shirt with one finger. He needs to stop doing that if Jon’s going to be able to finish this conversation.

“No,” Jon says, trying not to look at Tommy’s face. “Of course I haven’t. Look at me.”

“You’re cute, dude,” Tommy says, laughing. “Don’t talk yourself down.”

God, he’s shitfaced. Jon reaches over for his drink and chugs half of it so he can get on Tommy’s level. He should probably turn in, go to bed, get ready for a day of packing. Let this awkward conversation die before it gets too weird.

He slides guiltily back down into bed.

“Obviously I’m incred- incredibly physically attractive,” he says, tripping over it. His head feels nice and fuzzy. “Obviously. I’m like Brad Pitt. It’s just my personality, no one can handle it.”

Tommy’s still laughing, eyes all scrunched up and fond.

“I can handle it,” he says, poking Jon’s stomach through the shirt. “I can handle you.”

He needs to not say stuff like that when he’s lying 12 inches from Jon’s face. He smells so good, like lemons and faded cologne, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his neck that Jon wants to lick.

Oh, god. He’s on Tommy’s level now, that’s for sure.

“All I need to _do_ ,” Tommy elaborates, finger sliding over Jon’s stomach. Jon can’t breathe. He really can’t breathe. “- is to know when to tell you to shut the fuck up.”

“Oh thanks,” Jon manages to say, unsteady.

“That’s how I handle you.” He fists his hand in Jon’s shirt and tugs, not anywhere in particular, just pulling, grinning at him. “Shut the fuck up, Lovett. See. Like that.”

“Good advice,” Jon says faintly. He’s so close he can feel Tommy’s breath. “Only works 10% of the time, but good advice.”

“I know, you never shut up.” Tommy lets go of him but keeps looking at him, smiling. Jon’s red and he can feel his hair sticking to his temples with sweat. He swallows, hard, a couple times.

“It’s not that great, anyway,” Tommy says, smile falling off his face. He rolls away, onto his back, and Jon lets out a strangled breath. That was close.

“Having a boyfriend? How would you know? Do you have something to tell me, Tommy? It’s okay, this is a safe space-”

“Being in a relationship,” Tommy clarifies. “Not that great. Kinda bullshit. Really.”

Jon lets him lie. “Thanks for the one-star review, I’ll try to avoid it.”

Tommy huffs a laugh, sliding one foot up on the bed so his knee’s bent. Jon sneaks a quick look down his body. His boxers are bunched up so Jon can see most of his left thigh, pale, covered with fine blonde hair. Jon feels overheated and tense, like he’s fifteen again and trying not to look at guys in the locker room after gym class. Tommy's just so close, and warm. Jon wants to put his face between his legs. He wants Tommy's thighs flexing against his shoulders, Tommy reaching down to hold his head in place. Tommy makes these sounds when he's having sex, Jon's heard them. Grateful sounds, from deep in his throat. 

Tommy hums, rolling his head back into the pillow, and Jon realizes distantly that he’s getting hard. He lowers himself gingerly onto his back, grabs the blanket to drag casually over his crotch. Fuck.

Thank god Tommy’s too drunk to notice. He’s staring at the ceiling, idly rubbing his kneecap with one hand like it’s sore.

“There’s good parts though,” he says, vaguely, slowly. “Some parts are good.”

“Yeah,” Jon says carefully. It seems like Tommy’s about to either pass out or burst into tears.

“Nice to, like, know someone,” Tommy says, sniffing in hard. He narrows his eyes at the ceiling. “Nice to sleep with someone you actually know.”

Tommy’s been fucking random girls for the past two months. Apparently he’s over it. Jon wishes he had access to enough willing strangers to get sick of having sex with them.

“Yeah,” Jon says again, voice going hoarse. That is probably nice, sleeping with someone who knows you. Who loves you and gives a shit about you. Everything else that comes with it seems like bullshit, but that part’s probably pretty great. “Seems nice.”

Tommy looks over at him, and Jon closes his eyes really fast. Shit, he hopes the blanket’s covering his dick, but he can’t reach down to move it without seeming obvious.

“You wanna sleep in here?” Tommy asks quietly. “Promise I won’t drool on you or anything.”

_You could drool wherever you want_ , Jon thinks, like an idiot. “Yeah,” he says out loud. “Cool.”


End file.
